


Eye of the Beholder

by GoneGravitas (AntiGravitas)



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/GoneGravitas
Summary: “What have you done?” Sephiroth asks curiously.“I think the question is more, what haveyoudone, dear General?”As far as the Midgar gutter press is concerned, Shinra's elite First Class SOLDIERs are allfarmore than simply friends. Arguably worse, the trio's fan clubs are obsessed with rumours of their scandalous and illicit tangle of romantic intrigue, and Shinra's PR department's not above using the idea if they think it will benefit them. Apparently no-one is interested in what the men themselves have to say about it all.
Relationships: Angeal Hewley/Genesis Rhapsodos, Angeal Hewley/Genesis Rhapsodos/Sephiroth, Angeal Hewley/Sephiroth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41
Collections: 2020 FF7 Secret Santa





	Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [takenbynumbers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/takenbynumbers/gifts).



> Happy holidays, I hope you enjoy. :]

Angeal can see from the look on Sephiroth’s face that there has been another ‘article.’

He can tell from the tiny furrow that’s appeared between the General’s brows and the gleam of heightened intensity that’s in his eyes - the expression of the hawk that’s zeroed in on its prey. The General scrolls the padd sideways with his thumb, reading silently, and Angeal chews slowly, wondering which of them has been spotted this time. He thinks back over the previous week, mentally tallying the times the three of them have been seen out in public together, reviewing the conversations they’ve had in corridors, the looks they may have given one another. Nothing, he thinks. Not a damned thing.

The press is the bane of the Firsts’ existence. Mouthpiece of Old Man Shinra or not, they may not be the most preeminent source of gossip on the private lives of the company’s elite, but they’re not above putting their literary boots in when they think they can get away with it. It doesn’t help that the PR department goes out of its way to encourage the citizen fan clubs, although in all fairness it’s more interested in getting them talking about the Firsts in relation to whatever sanitized bright young thing they’ve gotten signed up to a Shinra contract, rather than any illicit scandals. 

Last week there’d been a very public gala dinner that Genesis had attended on the arm of a beautiful young singer who is apparently the source of most of the popular melodies on the local radio. It’s usually Genesis that gets the singers and the models and the artists, primarily because he asks for them. Angeal tends to get foreign diplomats and Sephiroth? Well, no-one seems eager to try their luck with Sephiroth. 

Angeal doesn’t ask what the papers are saying about them now. As far as he’s concerned it’s all a meaningless hum of misplaced speculation and intrusive busybodying, and he has absolutely no idea why the PR department hasn’t engaged the vicious talents of Legal to crack down on it years ago.

There’s a Turk in the lift when they finish up in the canteen and make their way towards the upper levels. There are _two_ Turks in the lift in fact. One of them is bald and blank-faced, smartly dressed and only a few inches shorter than Angeal, which is impressive for a non-modified human. He’s staring carefully ahead, as though the inner doors of the lift hold all the answers to life’s greatest questions, and seems disinclined to deviate from his meditations. The other one is rangy and has an indefinable air of scruffiness that makes Angeal disapprove of him immediately. He knows this one, has seen him swaggering around the corridors like the jumped-up brat he is. 

Angeal can feel the second one’s sideways stare on him, but as soon as he fixes his gaze on him the tough turns his green eyes away, blowing his messy hair out of his eyes. He’s still smirking at nothing when they reach his stop, and he departs with his tall companion in tow. Angeal glares after them both, and he’d say something to Sephiroth, but he knows damned well Sephiroth will give him that strange, considering look that asks without even speaking why Angeal even cares what the Turks think.

Genesis meets them in the corridor outside Lazard’s office, and Angeal registers his wicked smirk long before anything else and knows at once that he too has already made a sweep of the papers. But then, it’s a game to him. Genesis finds the gossip hilarious.

“Hello, lover,” Genesis purrs, lowering his eyes to look up through thick lashes at Angeal. “Have you found it in your heart to forgive me my indiscretions yet?”

Angeal breathes out through his teeth, and knows the irritation is plain on his face. Sephiroth merely stares, and Genesis erupts into laughter, slapping Angeal hard on the shoulder before whirling to bow flamboyantly to the General. Sephiroth, with customary grace, leans back out of his reach, and sidestepping Genesis on either side they continue down the corridor.

After the mission briefing Lazard takes a moment to pause and sit back in his chair. They wait in silence, the three of them, before the Director gathers his thoughts and says, with a paternalistic air made almost comical by his youth, “I am aware of the excitability of the press and your many fans among the populace. But gentlemen, please bear in mind that you carry on your shoulders not only the safety of this nation, but also the very reputation of our company. You are the most famous face of Shinra’s achievements, and you must comport yourselves at all times accordingly, even when others, _particularly_ when those outside this company, are unable to do so themselves.”

Perhaps to his credit Genesis waits until they’re once more alone in the corridor outside before he bursts into laughter. 

“Maybe we ought to declare ourselves Knights of the Round and swear off the temptations of the flesh forevermore, or at least until true love finds us and sets us free!" He presses his fingertips to his forehead, then runs them back through his hair, making the crimson strands gleam beneath the lights. "Ah, but then that might simply encourage our admirers to greater efforts.”

Sephiroth looks sideways at him in considering silence, his pale eyebrows lifted in the barest hint of confusion. Angeal allows his eyes to close briefly, and then follows the pair of them back towards the armoury, Genesis in full flow on why he alone should be the one to wield Excalibur.

*

There is a great and untamed beauty to Wutai, and were he not covered in filth and bitten all over by five different species of mosquito Angeal would most likely be in a better mood to appreciate it. They arrive back at camp six days after they first set out on reconnaissance, and although they’ve largely achieved their aims, those had mostly boiled down to “make sure the enemy fortifications are still there” and as such they have little else to show for their success except confirmation of the already expected. Such is the way of war. 

In part Angeal had been glad to get out of camp. They’d arrived two weeks prior and the very first thing Angeal had noticed, by way of Sephiroth’s narrow-eyed stare off in one direction, had been the reporter. It hadn’t so much been the camera that had given him away, as the look of poorly concealed and unbroken interest with which he’d regarded them from the moment they’d arrived. Now, Angeal is used to attention from non-SOLDIER and SOLDIERs alike, but there’s a note of pointed curiosity to a reporter’s gaze that he’s become sensitive to over the years. He’d given the man a grim enough stare that he’d scurried away to hide almost immediately, and Angeal had hoped that would be an end to the issue. Really, past experience ought to have taught him otherwise.

They arrive back at camp to find Genesis in the main tent at the heart of the encampment, sitting in the back surrounded on all sides by grunts and other support crew, all intent on him and hanging on his every word. When he spots Angeal and Sephiroth making their approach his eyes narrow and he breaks off mid-sentence, before shaking his head and continuing. Angeal knows _that_ pause, and from Sephiroth’s narrow-eyed expression so too does he. That’s the dramatic pause that says Genesis is up to something. 

There’s no speed even a SOLDIER First Class can reach that would have teleported Angeal out of line of sight fast enough for the grunts who caught Genesis’ expression not to turn and see him. Besides which when it comes to Genesis’s games Sephiroth has the strange and remarkable tendency to stand there like a deer in headlights waiting frozen for the inevitable collision. The grunts turn, their eyes widen, and even Sephiroth surely cannot fail to notice the scandalised paling of their faces. A few of them even have the cheek to whisper in the shadows where they incorrectly think that SOLDIER First Class eyes cannot penetrate. 

Angeal grimaces and turns away, and after a moment he hears Sephiroth follow. He ignores the gleam of Genesis’ eyes in the gloom of the tent but he can nonetheless feel the other man’s laughter even if his spellbound hangers-on apparently cannot.

They get their explanation three hours later when Genesis finally deigns to return to the SOLDIER First tent. He brings with him a local newspaper and as soon as he sees the looks on their faces his grin is wide and entirely unrepentant. 

“What have you done?” Sephiroth asks curiously. 

“I think the question is more, what have _you_ done, dear General?” 

Despite his disinterest, despite knowing that it will throw off his mood for the rest of the evening, despite all of this, Angeal is the first one to pick up the paper. He doesn’t even need to read the whole frontpage article because Genesis has already highlighted the relevant sections for him in red pen. He reads them in silence, aware of the frown deepening on his face and the weight of Sephiroth’s gaze alike. Then with a snort of disgust he tosses the paper down on the folding table for Sephiroth to read.

It takes Sephiroth seconds to scan the pages while Angeal very deliberately puts his back to Genesis.

“I don’t know why you do this kind of thing,” he growls, snatching his kit bag up from his camp bed and stowing it beneath with more force than is entirely necessary. Behind him Sephiroth is reading the article for a second time; Angeal can hear the crinkle of the paper as he folds it in his grip. 

“Why do they persist with these foolish fantasies?” Sephiroth asks, voice soft with disbelief and bewilderment. 

“Because _he,”_ Angeal says, turning and jabbing a finger sharply in Genesis’ direction. “Won’t stop encouraging them!”

“Angeal,” Genesis hums, his pout as false as the hurt in his eyes. “I hardly have to encourage them, but it is an artist’s bane to require the attention of lesser beings. They who must be led cannot be brought into the light of truth without exposure to the cold kiss of dawn.”

Angeal gives Genesis a withering glare. He recognises the Loveless quote through sheer repetition, and long years of association with its reciter have enabled him to read the hurt for the mirth it truly is. “The only kissing that’s been going on is in the heads of those damned reporters,” he says evenly.

“For them the passion of the unbroken spirit is the balm and nourishment of their own souls!”

Sephiroth looks up then, and his expression of mild bafflement mixed with Angeal’s thinned lips and narrowed eyes makes Genesis erupt into laughter. He’s still laughing when they turn out the light three hours later, and he doesn’t stop the next day when Angeal tosses the newspaper on the fire, consigning its salacious accusations of lovers’ tiffs and secret romances under cover of legitimate missions to the hunger of the flames.

  
  


*

  
  


“And they believe that you and I are engaged in a clandestine affair as retribution for a slight visited upon you by Genesis,” Sephiroth says slowly, green eyes gleaming behind the fall of his silver hair with something that might be amusement.

“Yes,” Angeal says stiffly, arms folded as he stares down at the streets below. 

“And that I have stolen your affections from him.”

A sigh that only perhaps the subtle ears of a SOLDIER First Class might be able to hear. 

“Yes.”

“Hm,” Sephiroth says, and when Angeal turns with a frown to look at him, Genesis appears in the doorway to the living room, finally ready.

“If you’re both quite done in here, we ought to go. Shouldn’t keep our eager public waiting,” Genesis declares, and Angeal’s frown deepens, if only in an effort to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

The bar they’re heading to is deep in the corporate sector of town, Upper plate-side naturally, since the three of them stalking the streets of Wall Market would be a recipe for a PR disaster. Quiet and discreet it’ll see them through a pleasant evening of drinking and entertainment. They go by foot, dressed in their civvies, which even off duty means suits. Not for the ranks of the First Class to lounge about the streets in jeans, not least because the weight of the Director’s expectations hang heavy. In all honesty Angeal doesn’t think Sephiroth even owns a pair of jeans. 

“You did confirm the booking,” he asks for the third time, and Genesis waves a hand in the air, the slightest of frowns creasing his brow.

“For the last time, yes. I booked the table. Relax, Angeal.”

“Raquel booked the table,” Sephiroth confirms softly, then smiles just slightly at Genesis’ scowl. 

“The table is booked and you two need to relax,” Genesis says. “Let your passions flow a little, my friends. Otherwise you’ll end up as constipated as Heidigger.”

Angeal closes his eyes briefly at the thought, and then puts it far from his mind in favour of planning his evening. They’ll take a corner booth, one of the half-circle ones up on the balcony that gives them an unimpeded view of the tables and dance floor below. And then they’ll sit and drink, and chat idly between themselves as they watch whatever live music act is on tonight. There’ll be discreet hosts to keep them company, and in the unlikely event that Genesis runs out of things to say the clever men and women of the club will fill in with their chatter. It’s nice. It’ll be good. They’ll sit back, relax, and for just a few hours not have to talk about the damned war.

They can already hear the clamour before they even round the corner, and yet they do so anyway even though there’s already a definite sense of foreboding building in Angeal’s chest. 

The entrance to their destination is surrounded by a not insignificant crowd of people of all ages, some of them dressed for entry to the club but not all. More than a few of them are holding up little placards with the names of the Firsts written on them, surrounded by hearts and the logos of the many and varied fan clubs they have garnered between them over their careers. As soon as the three of them come in sight the noise of the crowd’s chatter lifts to a crescendo and a sudden battery of camera flashes goes off. Angeal stops dead, as does Sephiroth, although the General does so with less abruptness and more the fluid glide of a predator reassessing. There’s a frown on that sharp face of his, as though this is unexpected but only mildly so. Sephiroth has, after all, been in the spotlight for far longer than either of them.

“Genesis,” Angeal growls coldly. “Did you tip these people off?”

At Genesis’ noncommittal hum of response, Sephiroth turns to him and the horrified lift of his eyebrows says more than any condemnation Angeal might have uttered. The third member of their trio takes in the appalled expression on the General’s fine features and the growing storm clouds in Angeal’s expression and lets out a bright and brilliant laugh. 

He steps in close between them and slings an arm over each of their shoulders. “It’s all for the best. I did it for you both you know, and the future of your careers!”

“My career is doing perfectly well without your help,” Angeal grates out, but Genesis simply grins and drags them both in closer.

“Let’s go, my loves,” he declares. “And give them the show of their bleak little lives!”

And so saying he draws the pair of them onwards, into the glittering lights of the club and the adoration of their many enthusiastic fans.

  
  
* 

The siren is a shrieking wail that cuts across the senses like a dull blade, pulsing with a rhythm fit only to summon the worst of headaches. Angeal races through the corridors of the underground laboratory, Sephiroth and Genesis at his side. Crowds of fleeing Shinra scientists and grunts have not long since given way to laboratories devoid of life, locked down and emptied out by long-practiced breach protocols. 

They wind their way through the regimented maze of corridors, heading deeper into the facility and closing behind them great blast doors, the like of which it would take the strongest artillery or the most mako-edged claws of an abomination to penetrate. There are no enemy combatants here, and no twisted monsters from the equally twisted benches of the scientists roaming free. Only the blaring alarm and the breach they, with their inhuman mako resistance, have been sent to contain. 

By the time they reach the central-most chamber of the minor reactor Angeal has already finished his mental preparations for the difficulties they will be forced to endure. Seeking out and sealing the leak is going to expose them to levels of mako that will be troublesome even to men of their enhanced physiology, and he expects to have undergone no small amount of pain by the time they reach the main chambers of this secondary reactor. 

It is with some surprise then, when finally they do enter the reactor chamber itself, they find it clear of any noxious green mists and filled not with the shriek of warning klaxons but only the warm hum of the reactor itself. As the reactor chamber blast doors seal closed behind them with a ringing clang, Angeal comes to a halt and stares around in search of the leak. Genesis is already halfway into the chamber, hot on Sephiroth’s heels, and the General- the General’s loping run has slowed to an unconcerned walk as he heads directly over to the main control panel. 

Genesis is nonetheless the first to reach the primary display, keying in a code and bringing up a diagnostic readout. He frowns, then scowls in disgust, before turning to meet Angeal’s eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” he declares. “According to this panel there’s nothing wrong here. Angeal, check the secondary console, perhaps this one is malfunctioning.”

But Angeal’s eyes have narrowed and his attention is fixed solely on Sephiroth. The final member of their trio has completed his trip over to the central panels and has reached around the back to dip into the shadowed recess behind. When he straightens it’s with a bottle of something that looks remarkably like Shiva’s Breath, a potent whisky that Angeal knows for a fact is one of the few drinks the other man will tolerate. He meets Angeal’s gaze with a look of such anticipation that Angeal blinks away the reflexive desire to laugh. Understanding, and from there irritation, is not far behind for him.

“You did this?” Angeal asks flatly.

Genesis, who remains scowling impatiently in his direction, notes the shift of his expression and then turns to look at Sephiroth too. His eyes find the whisky and the three stacked tumblers in the man’s other hand, and comprehension is swift in its dawning.

“Sephiroth!” he breathes in surprise. “You...did _this?_ ”

Sephiroth transfers his gaze to Genesis and the anticipatory gleam in his eyes turns to satisfaction at the delighted shock he sees on the other man’s face. With a tilt of his head he pads over to the main console, sets down bottle and tumblers with a soft clink of glass, and reaches out to cup Genesis’ cheek in his palm. 

“I am not without resourcefulness of my own,” the General drawls, and then, satisfied by the appreciation he sees in Genesis’ eyes, leans in and kisses him. 

This time Angeal does laugh, and then he sighs, and then, seeing Genesis lift his hand to fist it messily in Sephiroth’s hair he shakes his head and goes over to join them both and ensure that they do not, in the light of Sephiroth’s newly uncovered skill for artifice, forget about him.

Outside the klaxons continue to wail, keeping the rest of Midgar at bay, civilians and reporters alike, and for once forcing Shinra’s exceptional PR department to work their ingenuity in true service of their unrepentant First Class trio.


End file.
